


Like I'm Gonna Lose You

by 50_points_for_ravenclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, and mentioning blood, i figured i would warn just in case, the graphic violence is mostly just describing getting shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5684212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50_points_for_ravenclaw/pseuds/50_points_for_ravenclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Noise. It was the one thing Dean Winchester could remember about his first experience with a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like I'm Gonna Lose You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/gifts).



Noise. It was the one thing Dean Winchester could remember about his first experience with a gun. Of course, he remembered _being told_ he was shot and the aching to be felt for a long time afterward. One minute he’d been messing with the handgun his father gave him for protection while he went on a hunt; the next, he was left prone on the floor with nothing but a dull ringing echoing around his brain as the only proof that anything had even happened at all. It was a sound that would stick with him for years to come.

It’d been louder and more jarring than he ever could have anticipated. He imagined there must have been pain, a certain sort of agony that only a gunshot wound can give you, but he couldn’t actually say if that was true or not. The bang had rendered him numb to it as compact metal pierced muscle and tissue. Dean hadn’t even been aware he’d shot himself until someone came to his aid. No, he laid on the floor, eyes staring dazedly up at the staccato ceiling above him as the overwhelmingly shrill buzzing consumed his thoughts. There wasn’t any time to register the impact of his back hitting the floor or the feeling of carpet roughly chaffing at his skin just after.

The noise bounded from place to place inside his skull, like the toll of a bell. A magnificent bell. One of those loud ones that resided in the high towers of old fashioned churches and seemed to continue ringing even once the clapper had stopped crashing against the bell’s sound rim. Dean couldn’t help but to be reminded of that glamorized… _national bell_ he hazily recalled visiting in Pennsylvania one time because Sam had insisted they go while in town. And Dean remembered wishing his little brother was there then so he could admonishingly tell him what the name of that damn thing was.

Thinking of Sammy made him think of Bobby, on who John had dropped the youngest Winchester while he started to show Dean some of the basics of hunting. Bobby would know what to do. He’d complain and curse and call Dean every name in the book, all the while carrying him gently to the car and driving him to the nearest hospital. The old man was like that. He tried his best to seem grumpy but could never seem to completely hide his too big heart.

Each thought, each face, each memory Dean thought of in that moment flashed behind closed eyelids with each toll of the bell inside his skull until there was nothing left but a faint and constant humming to keep his senses occupied. Confused and scared, unable to tell just exactly what had happened, Dean made an effort to sit up and gain stock of the situation but found himself unable to move how he wanted. The panic was just beginning to set in when there was loud knocking followed by the door busting open seconds later.

After that it’d been a blur. There was the stricken face of the motel worker who’d been in the front office to check them into their room, a frantic phone call, a lot of bright flashing lights and patronizingly comforting voices. Once he’d realized just what had happened, Dean remembered most wishing for his father to not be angry with him.

It feels strange now to be thinking of such a random, long ago memory. Though, he guesses it isn’t so random after all. Even in his line of business, getting shot isn’t a very common occurrence. Getting shot for the ninth time in one lifetime (sort of) is a bit of an achievement (more like a curse).

But every single time, he’s felt the same confusion and helplessness as that first shot at eleven years old. Every time he’s overwhelmed by the ringing of the bell.

“Dean! Hey, Dean.”

Dean groans deep in his throat. The echo of the gunshot is enough for his brain to handle. He doesn’t need to add loud voices to that.

“Dean!”

“Wha—” he cuts off with a curse, curling in on himself only to feel something wet pooling at his gut.

“We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“Sam…” Dean mumbles.

There are hands now, skimming along his neck, his jaw, until they grip his head tight and pull it up so its not lolling against his collarbone. With this vantage point, he can see Sam’s face swimming in front of him, going in and out of focus despite how close he is.

“Come on, Dean. Stay with me, okay?” Sam is saying, words sounding oddly distant. “Just stay awake. I’m gonna get you somewhere safe.”

Dean grits his teeth when Sam pulls at his arm until he’s standing. He almost falls again as soon as he’s on his feet but Sam has already wrapped an arm around his back, slinging one of Dean’s arms over his shoulder in support. He makes comforting noises that Dean can’t really understand as they start walking.

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean says finally. “Will you cut it out?”

“Well, at least I know you’re lucid, now,” Sam mutters.

Dean wants to cry when they reach the Impala. He’s a big mix of conflicting emotions—happy to finally be able to sit again but devastated at the blood that’s going to stain Baby’s upholstery.

“What the hell happened?” he asks once they’re on the road.

Thankfully, Sam doesn’t try to play any of his crappy new age music while they drive and Dean can relax a bit. Letting Sam drive is about as rare as getting shot.

“Palmer got nervous,” Sam says.

“So, he shot me?” Dean intones.

He hopes his tone gets across just how ridiculous he thinks that is. Sam only shrugs in response though so he doesn’t think it had the desired effect.

“He took Lily, too,” Sam admits. “Who knows where they went.”

Dean exhales sharply, glaring down at the small trickle of blood seeping between his fingers. Pressing harder on the wound hurts more than he would ever like to admit but he does it anyway because it’s the only thing he can do until they get to a hospital.

“He does realize his daughter’s a werewolf right?” Dean breathes. It’s getting harder and harder to retain oxygen long enough to speak.

“I don’t think he cares anymore.”

There are a lot of things Dean would like to say to that but he doesn’t have enough energy to say them so he stays silent, focusing best he can on the throbbing in his abdomen. Throbbing means a pulse and a pulse means he’s still alive.

Despite his best efforts, he finds himself beginning to nod off. His head slides across the headrest onto his shoulder only for him to jerk back awake, staring wildly at the scenery passing by until he begins the process all over again. At one point he notices Sam glance worriedly over at him but thankfully he doesn’t say anything.

Just as Dean is slipping away for a fifth time, Sam yelps in surprise and the car decelerates much more quickly for Baby’s brake pads than Dean is comfortable with. He almost goes flying but is luckily caught by the seatbelt Sam so graciously put over him. Even so, he feels like his insides are trying their best to either exit through the gaping hole in his stomach or out of his mouth and onto the floor of the Impala.

“What...what are…” Dean tries, gasping his way through the pain shooting all through the muscles in his front.

“Cas,” Sam says urgently.

Dean’s head snaps up (more accurately, it flops back against the seat) and he catches sight of the angel standing there in the middle of the road illuminated by the headlights enough that they almost wash him out completely as he’s only about a foot away from the front bumper. There’s a long pregnant pause filled only with Castiel staring at the Winchesters and the Winchesters staring at Castiel. Then, Sam is hurriedly unbuckling his seatbelt and scrambling out of the car.

“Cas! What the hell was that?” he asks.

Dean hears Castiel’s per usual murmur in response but can’t quite decipher his words. He’s starting to fall again, only to jerk into consciousness once more at the creaking of his door. He turns his heavy-lidded gaze to Castiel who crouches next to him outside the open passenger door, wasting no time in reaching a hand out to hover, palm down, over his stomach. With a flash of brilliant white light, Dean feels the blood fade away as well as the pain. Nothing left but a rip in his shirt.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks once Dean’s vision is back to normal. His voice is just as gravelly as it’s always been but Dean shivers nonetheless.

He nods in answer, adjusting his position until he’s sitting up all the way against the back of his seat. Glancing beneath himself, the stark red of his blood is already turning brown as it dries and soaks into the leather seat. He sneers at the sight. Looks like he’d been right about that.

“Thanks, Cas,” he sighs at the angel, too tired to feel embarrassed about showing gratitude. Or maybe just too used to showing it to Castiel whenever the angel saves their asses.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

“We should get back to the motel,” Sam pipes up. “Get some rest.”

“What about Palmer and Lily?”

“We’ll look for them tomorrow. I’d rather avoid one of us getting shot again.”

“They went south.”

Sam and Dean blink at Castiel for a long moment, before they both frown almost in unison.

“Have you been here this whole time?” Dean asks, just the slightest edge to his voice.

“I check in occasionally.”

“All the time?” Sam says incredulously.

“Yes,” Castiel answers with no inflection suggesting he thinks this is strange like the brothers do.

Dean glances at Sam with a raised brow and Sam glances at him with pursed lips. They silently agree that it just isn’t worth it right now as they both exhale slowly and make to get back on the road.

“I will come with you. To make sure you’re safe,” Castiel says without any room for argument.

So, neither Winchester protests as he gets into the back of the car.

It’s only a ten minute drive back into the small town they’d staked out for the job from what distance they’d made on the highway toward the nearest hospital. Just another six minutes and they’re pulling into the parking lot outside the dingy motel, the building painted an ugly mustard yellow with orange and green accents and adorned with dim, flickering lights running along the porch ceilings. The sight is oddly comforting, out of familiarity more than anything, despite its drab appearance.

“You sleeping over?” Dean asks once they’ve gone into their room and he’s fallen back onto his bed. He thinks the question is only a _little_ sarcastic but Sam’s bitch face does not agree.

“I don’t sleep, Dean,” Castiel says with a frown and Dean can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of him.

“Yeah, man,” he chuckles.

He and Sam go about slipping off their boots—just about the most they do to get ready for bed—and splaying out on their respective beds. There seems to be a general consensus between them that it’s time to sleep because neither reaches for the remote—Sam’s already turned out his light and turned his back to them to curl up on top of the sheets. Dean is just about to do the same when he finally realizes that Castiel is still standing at the end of his bed, looking between the two of them with a look of completely unwarranted concentration. He sighs heavily through his nose.

“You gonna just stand around all night?”

Castiel stares at him without answering, the tightness to his brow suggesting he doesn’t quite know how to answer that.

“Sit down or something, man. You’re creeping me out,” Dean grumbles, flicking off his light.

Castiel does as suggested, sitting on the other side of the bed with his usual stiff back and awkwardly loose arms. It’s as if he still hasn’t gotten the hang of acting human, or having a corporal body.

“Lay down,” Dean says gruffly, scooting just a bit farther over to give Castiel some room.

The angel hesitated but eventually lays down, face up and staring at the ceiling. He’s still wearing his black dress shoes, trench coat, and tie.

“Thanks,” Dean whispers.

Usually he’s asleep by now, or as asleep as he’s capable of nowadays. It’s different with Castiel here though. Not quite strange—just different.

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask what Dean’s thankful for.

“I don’t really blame him for shooting me,” Dean confesses in the quiet. There’s a faint humming sound from outside—probably the ice machine just around the corner from the room—but other than that, the air is silent. Not even the sound of cars to fill the emptiness. It makes him feel even weaker for saying it. But he feels like he has to. “I was going to shoot his daughter.”

“She’s a werewolf,” Castiel says just as softly. “You’re not a murderer.”

And that…that hits Dean square in the chest. Because he is. Has been since he went on that first hunt with his dad, since the first time he shot a gun, even if he only ended up hurting himself. Because there was no going back after that. He finally understood the damage he could do and what that meant about all the monsters out there with ten times the advantage. It’s easy to pretend he’s doing good—that he isn’t hurting anyone, only helping them—but even he knows that’s a lie.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s clenched his fists to the point of cutting off circulation until warm fingers are prying them open. He turns his head in Castiel’s direction, even though he can’t see more than a silhouette with only those dim porch lights coming through the window as a light source. He’s expecting Castiel to let go, pull away now that he has Dean’s attention, but he doesn’t. Instead, the fingers trail along his palm until they’re wrapped around his wrist, just tight enough to anchor.

“You’re not a murderer,” Castiel repeats, blue eyes, the only feature Dean can remotely see in the dark, staring at him in such an unwavering way, they make him feel much more vulnerable than he’s ever wanted to feel.

Swallowing thickly, he nods, a quick jerk of his head that says he doesn’t really believe Castiel but he wants to. This seems to be satisfying enough as Castiel looks away though he doesn’t take his hand away.

And Dean falls asleep with the warmth of soft uncallused fingers pressing at the delicate skin of his inner wrist.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Kris! <3
> 
> Tumblr: 50-points-for-ravenclaw.tumblr.com


End file.
